Dalat and Hanoi

So I left Ho Chi Minh City, very excited to escape to Dalat which is located in the highlands of south Vietnam. The bus trip was not six hours. It was ten (always add at least three hours onto what the tour bookers tell you). At least the bus was a bus, and not a ute. And I did get a seat by myself where I curled up into the smallest human ball imaginable. The road was really bumpy, or the driver was on crack, I don't know which. I have never been so relieved to get off a bus in my entire life. But I heard it takes over forty eight hours to get to Laos, so I obviously haven't experienced hell in its purest form yet. Dalat is one of the most beautiful places in Vietnam because: 1. It is clean. 2. You don't feel like you're suffocating when you step outside. 3. The mountains are like something out of a dream. The temperature is cool, but not cold cool. Just right. I actually got to use my legs and walk up hills. I visited the Summer Palace where the last members of the royal family went to vacation. A beautiful pagoda and a waterful. The embroidery gallery was not so exciting. On the 29th I flew to Hanoi. Hanoi is so different to Ho Chi Minh City. It doesn't smell like a sewer. The buildings have thousands of years of history and the streets are narrow, filled with interesting shops and people. I love it here. I would also love to post some photos that I took but alas, they were all WIPED AWAY by one of the mysteriously inept computers over here. A months worth of photos gone. At least I still have my passport. The first question I got when I arrived at the hostel was "Where your boyfriend? Why he no here?" I stared at the little Vietnamese lady, not knowing how the fuck to reply. "I'm travelling alone." She gave me a look that should be reserved for animals about to be put down. "Oh, I see," she said sadly. Today I went to Ho Chi Minh's final resting place. Of course you have to cover yourself up and if you were caught bringing a camera in there, I reckon there is a high possibility you would be shot. The guards are very scary, humourless people. You file in and theres no time to stand around gawking, they yell at you if you pause. If you ask me, I don't think the corpse was real. I am not particularly well acquainted with dead bodies, but it looked more like wax. The skin was sort of white. And the hair wasn't three dimensional. I remember his fingernails the most. They looked perfectly manicured. Apparently Ho Chi Minh never wanted a big spectacle when he died. He simply wanted to be cremated. But there was no chance of that happening. When I left the building, I noticed a Vietnamese woman crying behind me. I can understand why they love Uncle Ho so much. If it wasn't for Ho Chi Minh, there would be a Macdonalds on every corner of Saigon. I also saw Hanoi prison, which the French established in the late 1800s to stow away political dissidents. Some American soliders were also sent there during the war. All the photographs depict them smiling, laughing and playing basketball or cards, or receiving medical treatment. I don't know how the government really expect people to believe that the Vietnamese gave American P.O.W.s a holiday during their "temporary detainment". Getting a flight to Siem Reap tomorrow. I can't wait to see Cambodia. But I will miss Vietnam and the people here.

Ky Quang

For the past three days I have been at the orphanage in Ho Chi Minh. On Monday I went back to Ky Quang Pagoda orphanage which is where the children are mostly physically or intellectually disabled. We arrive at about half past nine in the morning, and we help feed the kids. It is sometimes a very slow process. You move the child into the chair, secure the steel table and then attempt to put the plastic sheet around the child's neck so food doesn't get all over them. Some of them are alright with this, others are not, and they will refuse to let you put it on and chuck a tantrum. Once you have managed to do this, you start with the food. About half of them can actually eat by themselves but the ones with the very severe disabilities need to be spoon fed. It can take up to forty minutes or an hour to get them to eat a bowl of porridge. One of the little girls hates eating because at birth she was malnourished, therefore it is painful for her to digest food now because her body isn't used to it. You feel horrible trying to force it down their throats but there really is no other option. Sometimes you have to place the bowl at a distance from them or they will throw it. Another one of the girls screams and cries, and the only way to get her to eat is to get the spoon and scrape the food off against her teeth.

Once the feeding is done, they either walk or are lifted back to their cots. The nurses change them and then they have a sleep.

When I first started doing this a couple of weeks ago I would leave the orphanage feeling really depressed and depleted. Because you can't do much to help them except be there. They're probably never going to leave that place. The nurses do their best but look exhausted and unhappy a lot of the time, because it is a largely thankless and difficult job, which probably doesn't pay very well.

After that you go visit the other kids who are kept in other rooms. There are a lot of little boys under three. One of them starts screaming whenever he sees me, much to the amusement of the nurses. Some of the girls about 8 - 10 often help the nurses there, picking up the babies and changing them or feeding them.

The orphanage I went to yesterday was for children without disabilities who have been abandoned by their parents. One girl was put on a train to Ho Chi Minh City from Hanoi by her uncle after her parents died. He didn't want her so he sent her down without any money, food or clothes. The police found her walking up and down the platform. The place had a central courtyard surrounded by three stories of dormitories. It sort of looked like a prison. The kids range from babies to 20 years old. You can see there is some kind of social dynamic going on in there among the kids, like a pecking order. The children don't look happy to see you, they don't really care that you're there. They can be quite hostile, I guess that is how they learn to survive. I made the mistake of trying to play with a little boy, who looked no more than 5, and he spat in my face.

I leave Ho Chi Minh tomorrow, and I'm very excited to go.

We Could Stay Here For A Long Time

The thing I miss most from home is my music. My iPod exploded in my bag on my second day in HCMC. This song is the fucking bomb.

I'll probably be in the city for another week then I'm going to Dalat. I like Saigon, but after My Tho, it seems a bit of a hole. There are so many motorbikes here, so much pollution, the people look pissed off, and the food is more expensive. I'll be going back to the orphanage this week as well and I'm looking forward to seeing the kids again, especially the little girl we called spider monkey because she just runs and jumps on you and latches on. It is obviously sad going there and seeing how these little kids live, but even more sad when you leave because they know and you know you're probably not coming back.

There isn't much there for them to do, and the people paid to work there don't smile a lot. A lot of the disabled kids are left lying on the floor because they're unable to walk. It can often take up to an hour to feed some of the ones with cerebal palsy so you have to be really patient.

I wish that I could take a CD player with me and whack on this song. It would soon have them dancing.

Ho Chi Minh or Hanoi?

Yesterday afternoon was our last day at the building site on Dragon Island. The house is 99.9 per cent finished. The last thing we did was to cement some bricks around the "window". It looks like the dodgiest thing in the world. Unfortunately there is not a lot of money for building materials so the window is just a grill without any kind of cover over it. There are gaps between it and the wall. The door doesn't have frames, its just exposed brick. The brick is very cheap and easy to break as it is made from some kind of clay. There is just metal sheeting for the roof and no insulation or anything fancy like that. Nevertheless, its a home, and its a hell of a lot better than what these people were living in before, so we all feel happy about that.

To celebrate, Bob, the head builder, organised a little party. This involved lots of food and lots of rice wine. Having vowed the night before never to touch rice wine again (it is a potent and evil substance) I was torn between my desire to drink and my desire to remain breathing. The women cooked a beef soup for us with carrot which was really, really yummy, with fresh bread. I seem to have FINALLY mastered the use of chopsticks to my relief (not being able to use eating utensils is very embarrassing in all cultures). About ten minutes into the meal, out came the suspicious looking bottles. We all groaned as we knew what we were in for. The builders ask you to either Ho Chi Minh (take a full shot) or Hanoi with a friend (you drink half, they drink the other half). The boys are pretty much forced to drink, as it is rude not to accept. I don't think women are really supposed to get crunk in this culture, but they still encouraged me to down a few... ok maybe a lot.

Suddenly I realised I was sitting in the jungle with real Vietnamese people eating real Vietnamese food, experiencing real Vietnamese life. It made me really happy to know that I'm living amongst the culture, not viewing it from behind a glass window. This isn't some crappy tour. I feel like a part of this world.

I love the people here. I love how they help you out even though you can't speak their language. I love how they tell you are "diep" even though you have sweat pouring down your face and cement all over your clothes. I love how they live simply yet are so happy.

My Tho

Right now I am living in My Tho, which is located in the Mekong Delta. This is the rainy, hot season. Every morning we get up to get the ferry to Dragon Island where we are building a home for a family.

We walk through the town, where everyone sits outside their shops, the men smoking, the women holding babies. You can count dozens of children in My Tho before you leave your street. Most of the businesses are pharmacies or shops selling mobile phones, cheap clothes and food. You can't really tell the difference between a restaurant and a house because everyone just hangs out there in a really informal way, sitting on the plastic stools that are ubiquitous in Vietnam.

To get to the ferry you walk through a narrow alley that we have dubbed "fish lane" because it smells horrific. There is Vietnamese writing on the wall, but I notice today that someone has translated a sentence - "when you enslave the people you treat them like an animal". The kids run after us screaming "hello, hello hello!"

Alone in Saigon.

I have NO idea who these people are. They saw me and started laughing so I said "click click photo?" The kids are really cute. They grabbed onto me. How pink does my skin look?

This monk came up to me and started snapping pics of me so I said fair go, lets have one. He said, Ok mate.

Look at the powerlines. Holy mother of God. No wonder they have brown outs every hour.

Pho, the only safe thing to eat here. As you can see, I am still chopstick illiterate.

I'm in Saigon, bitches.

It has begun to pour rain. I hail a taxi. An American man told me to only trust two types of taxis, but I can't remember either of the names. Vina Sun? Minh Bah? Minh Tao?
I get into a van. I hope it is actually a taxi.
"Sin Chao, please take me here," I point at the map, marked with sweat and rain.
He stares at me blankly and says something that I can't understand. At all.
"I pay 20, 000 dong, yes?"
"Gjkbfiweni fiugno uidgfiuwebkjf sdrjgbowi."
"20, 000, Ok?"
"Bicbnwnfheufwedwsv cvx! FNIUERBFIRE!"
"Uhhh...?"
I get out Lonely Planet as a last resort and try to pronounce some phrases. He laughs at me.
Everywhere looks the same. Two adults and three children on a motorcycle. One is holding a baby. Women by the road covered from head to toe. They must be boiling.
The taxi stops and the driver holds up five fingers. I hand him 20, 000 dong.
"BEIN IGRE!"
"No. Thats all I'm paying you."
"NHIFNHIU!" He holds up his fingers again.
"Fuck ya!"
I get out of the taxi and I hear footsteps behind me.
"AVUSVAUB! ABHIURBIU!"
I stop and there is the driver, holding my change.